Day 2221 : Pedalling Towards the Unknown, Again

I don't know how those three months passed in Varanasi.

Every evening I found myself sitting on the same ghat, watching the same Ganga. Yet somehow, nothing was ever the same. The moon never shone as it had the night before. The ripples carried a different melody every evening. Even the reflections dancing on the water arrived wearing new colours.

Perhaps that is the beauty of life.

Nothing repeats itself, even when everything appears unchanged.

Soon, the day arrived when I had to whisper a goodbye to this timeless city.

My heart felt strangely divided—heavy and excited at the same time.

Heavy because I wasn't leaving a city; I was leaving countless moments that had quietly become part of me.

Excited because rivers are not meant to stay in one place forever. Their devotion is not to the riverbank, but to the ocean.

And maybe, I too, needed to keep flowing.

On Day 2221 of my journey, around 11 in the morning, I stood beside my bicycle watching dark clouds slowly embrace the fierce summer sun.

It felt as though the sky itself was telling me,

"Vishal... you may move now."

I smiled.

The next destination was Prayagraj, nearly 120 kilometres away.

I already knew I wouldn't reach it in a single day.

After spending almost three months in one place, my body needed to remember how to become a river again. I promised myself that I would stop whenever my body asked me to. There was no destination waiting for me. Only the next breath.

Slowly...

The bicycle remembered its rhythm.

The body remembered its balance.

The road remembered me.

Not long after leaving Varanasi, I stopped beside the road to eat a few bananas. Through the thick blanket of clouds, the sun suddenly pierced the sky with sharp golden rays. Within minutes, sweat began flowing down my forehead and my breathing grew heavier.

Instead of forcing myself forward, I paused beneath a tree.

Sometimes, the greatest movement is hidden inside a pause.

As though existence had heard my body before I did, the clouds gathered once again. A cool wind rushed in from every direction. The scorching sky softened, and soon gentle rain began to fall.

I cannot explain the joy of cycling in those first drops.

Every raindrop felt like the universe gently tapping my shoulders, smiling, saying,

"Slow down... I'm with you."

I found myself laughing alone on the road.

After nearly forty kilometres, two young boys standing on a rooftop began calling out to me.

I stopped, curious.

They genuinely believed I was selling something on my bicycle.

When they heard about In Search of Life, their eyes widened with wonder.

Within minutes, I was sitting on their rooftop, sharing mangoes with them while laughter flowed effortlessly between strangers who somehow felt like old friends.

Before I left, they packed almost two kilograms of mangoes for my journey.

Dark clouds gathered once again.

Without me asking, they helped lift my bicycle under the shelter of the highway boundary wall and insisted I wait until the rain became lighter.

That unexpected pause turned into another beautiful conversation—about yoga, life, trust and the strange ways existence introduces people to one another.

I often wonder...

How many homes have I entered simply because I chose to trust?

As the day slowly folded itself into evening, I stopped at small tea stalls every now and then.

Every cup of tea carried another conversation.

Every stranger wanted to know the story behind this bicycle.

Every smile reminded me that curiosity is one of the purest forms of love.

Around six in the evening, darkness slowly began replacing daylight.

I started thinking about where I might spend the night.

Just then, a dhaba owner called out,

"Come... have a little rest."

I smiled and walked in.

He offered me a chair, water and conversation.

At one point he said something that stayed with me:

"Trust is the only word that can conquer the world."

A man sitting nearby listened quietly and then said,

"If my home were closer, I would have taken you there to stay with my family."

I smiled.

"When the time is right," I replied, "existence always aligns the right home."

The dhaba owner then lovingly insisted,

"Stay here tonight. Feel that this is your own home."

His kindness touched me deeply.

Yet, while sitting there, I quietly listened to my body.

It wasn't asking for company.

It was asking for silence.

The smell of smoke and alcohol filling the dhaba told me this wasn't where my body could truly rest.

With folded hands and a heart full of gratitude, I continued.

A little further ahead, I stopped outside a medical store to ask if there was somewhere I could sleep.

The shopkeeper looked at my bicycle and smiled.

"There is a temple about five hundred metres ahead," he said.

"It will be much better for you."

I followed his suggestion.

As I entered, the temple was alive with continuous chanting of 'Hare Rama.'

The air vibrated with cymbals, drums and voices soaked in devotion.

I requested the priest for a place to sleep.

Without hesitation, he welcomed me.

Before I knew it, people had surrounded me—not with questions, but with glasses of water, warm smiles and invitations to eat.

I had already eaten dinner just before arriving, but I couldn't refuse the innocence in their request.

I asked for just a little prasada.

Somehow...

"Just a little" became an entire meal.

I tried my best to honour every bite, but one last chapati remained.

I felt strangely guilty.

Perhaps because when food has once become God in your life, wasting even a single piece feels like disrespect.

I assumed the satsang would finish around nine.

It didn't.

Nine became ten.

Ten became midnight.

Midnight quietly became morning.

The chanting never stopped.

The little bed they gave me vibrated with every beat of the drums.

I drifted in and out of tiny naps, smiling at the humour of existence.

"This," I thought,

"is also a way of spending the night."

Around five in the morning, I opened my eyes.

The chanting was still flowing.

Stepping outside, I heard birds replacing drums.

Silence replacing sound.

How beautiful silence becomes after an entire night of music.

My body felt tired.

But grateful.

Soon after leaving the temple, another stranger stopped me.

He had once lived in Maharashtra and became excited hearing I had come from there.

He insisted we share tea together.

Tea became conversation.

Conversation became laughter.

Laughter became another memory.

I even recorded a small video of him speaking lovingly about Maharashtra.

Sometimes, I don't remember what I ate during those days.

Perhaps only tea...

a few biscuits...

and countless servings of human kindness.

Around 10:30 in the morning, I finally rolled into Prayagraj.

My legs were tired.

My heart wasn't.

Someone welcomed me with a nourishing brunch.

Soon after, I found a room at Kriya Yoga Ashram, where I now begin another chapter—living a disciplined life, spending quiet hours in introspection, allowing this restless river to become still once again.

And perhaps...

that is what this journey has always been.

Not travelling from one city to another.

But travelling...

from one version of myself

to another.

Gurudev Yogi Satyam Ji ' Kriya-Yoga Ashram, Prayagraj, Uttar Pradesh'